


Hope is a Dangerous Thing

by charlottepriestly



Series: Music Of The Heart [4]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Miranda's P.O.V, Song fic, angsty with a happy ending, best way to deal with pms am i right, but it's brief I promise, sorry there's a bit of Miranda/Stephen in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 10:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottepriestly/pseuds/charlottepriestly
Summary: Miranda doesn't know why she hired the smart, fat girl. All she knows is that her life has been thrown into emotional turmoil ever since, and there is only one person to blame.From Miranda's P.O.V - an exploration of her psyche as she deals with life, loss, and her stubborn assistant.





	Hope is a Dangerous Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Song: Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have - Lana del Rey
> 
> What can I say? I was inspired (shoutout to Lana for giving me the inspiration). Plus it's been a while since I've written an emotional piece. Who needs sleep, anyways?
> 
> Angsty, but with a happy ending!
> 
> No copyright intended. The Devil Wears Prada belongs to Lauren Weisberger and Fox Pictures, so the characters don’t belong to me!

I will never know what made me hire the girl. The moment I laid my eyes on her, on those _clothes_ , I knew she was done for. She would not last a day under my employ, and she certainly wouldn't have an ounce of competence in her entire being. Or so I thought, at the beginning. She proved that I was sorely mistaken. Appearances, it seems, can be deceiving. How was I to know that she would have a backbone? She spoke to me in a way I have not been spoken to in many years. For the first time in decades, someone was standing up for themselves - against _me_. It was... intriguing. Shocking, yes, but above all it sparked a curiosity in me that was too tempting not to be sated.

So, to the bewilderment of Emily and the confusion of Nigel and the rest of my staff, I hired her. I took a chance on the smart, fat girl. She has been working for me for just over two weeks now - that is thirteen days more than I had expected her to. And even though she bores me every day with her stupidity, incompetence and arrogant _ignorance_ , I do not fire her. There is something in her eyes, a spark I recognize - maybe from my own eyes - that makes me want to keep pushing her. To keep testing her. I have already seen improvement in her short time here. Normally, my other assistants would be far more idiotic and useless at this point in their tenure. Perhaps she will prove herself, with time.

A knock at the door brings me back from my thoughts, and I lift my thoughtful gaze from the Book to focus on my husband, who stands leaning against the door of my study. Immediately I know what he's here for.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," he slurs, and irritation shoots through me. I try to hide my scowl. "How much longer are you gonna be looking at pretty models?"

My nostrils flare with the sharp breath I let out. My, he's had a lot tonight. I hope the girls are asleep.

"Hm," I say, and return my focus to the mock up for the September issue. "I have a lot to do, I'll need an hour at least."

He groans in frustration - like a child would - and storms into the room, shutting the door behind him. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, summoning the will power and the patience to deal with his drunken attitude once again. I look up at him, and he's moved to stand in front of my desk, looming over me.

"You're _always_ working," he spits, fury clouding his expression in an instant, a storm forming in his eyes. "What about working on your marriage every once in a while?"

I tense all over, and I can feel my expression turning into the cold, disdainful glare of the Dragon Lady. Slowly, I stand from my chair, straightening my posture so that I'm nearly the same height as him. For once I'm glad I didn't take off my heels the moment I got home. I stare dagger into his eyes, unflinchingly, but he doesn't back down.

"I said," I utter quietly, calmly. "I have work to do. The issue deadline is coming up, so I need to get this done." He continues to stare at me with rage, and I can see that he wants a fight. Suddenly I have no energy for this anymore. I feel as if someone pulled a tap, and I feel drained. Lately, it's a sensation I've grown familiar with. I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. The fake happy marriage, the hurtful fights, the tedious galas, the boardroom battles, the cruel press, the endless betrayals, the constant feeling that everyone around me loathes me, to the point that they're all just waiting to celebrate the moment I drop dead.

I want him gone, so that I can be alone. So that I can get back to work. I make my way to him in two strides, reaching up to caress his jaw. He looks different now, not so angry, but guarded. I fake a smile - not the first time I've had to fake something for him - and I lean up to kiss him lightly, swiftly. His beard scratches my skin, and he reeks of alcohol. I draw back, trying not to let repulsion show on my face, and squeeze his arm. I force my expression into his favourite 'submissive, apologetic wife' performance, and I manage a smile. "I'll have more time for us when the issue is put to rest. Okay?"

He seems pacified, more relaxed now. He nods instead of giving me a verbal answer, but he does not look as if he's trying to pick a fight anymore, so I take it as a win. After a moment of looking at me - and trying not to lose my patience and kick him out - he says, "See you in bed, Miri," and leaves.

Disgust turns my stomach into a bundle of lead, and I tell myself it's because of the distasteful nickname.

 

_I was reading Slim Aarons_

_And I got to thinking that I thought_

_Maybe I'd get less stressed_

_If I was tested less like all of these debutantes,_

_Smiling for miles in pink dresses_

_And high heels on white yachts,_

_But I'm not that._

It seems that the girl has finally gotten it through her thick head what fashion is really about. After nearly a month, I have finally gotten my message across.

I arrived into work this morning, mentally prepared for another day of my assistant's hideous outfit constantly assaulting my retinas, but what I saw shook me. Deeply.

She straightened up, and I couldn't help but freezing. My heart stopped. I felt the air leave my lungs in a sharp exhale of surprise. She looked... _well_. Much better indeed. It turns out that the smart, fat girl is actually a pleasure to look at. And I couldn't help but look my fill, as often as I could throughout the day. Imagine my surprise at finding tantalising curves under all that cheap polyester. But the thing I can't get out of my mind for the life of me is her hopeful smile, the proud, giddy twinkle in brown orbs. And the smug smirk as she walked past me, encasing me in a lovely scent that could only be Chanel, _dear_ _God_.

I try not to consider too hard why my assistant's change of appearance holds so much importance to me. I just feel proud that she's finally learning, that my message got through to her, that I'm teaching her better. That's what this job is really about, after all - to teach people how to live their lives in art. How to make themselves into varying beautiful artworks each day.

I also try not to consider why, after nearly a month, I choose tonight to finally sleep with Stephen. I refuse to dwell on the fact that, for the first time in our marriage, I have experienced moments of pleasure - even if I didn't quite finish. And I will absolutely never admit that it was _her_ I saw behind the darkness of my eyelids.

Now I drift between wakefulness and sleep, listening to the soft snores of my husband. I feel a small smile gracing my face as Morpheus takes me to the realm of dreams, because I know that everything would continue as normal now that my marriage seems more salvageable. I don't feel so drained anymore.

 

.....-.....

 

It appears that 'normal' was idealistic of me. For the most part, yes, everything continues as normal. I spend my days working, and my evenings avoiding my husband's advances while trying to spend as much time with my daughters as I can manage. My laser-sharp focus is even more cutting as of late, making it easy for me to force everything, apart from work and my children, to the background of my mind - a white noise to remain ignored amongst all the other undesirable things in my life.

My assistant being one of those things.

Not that she's undesirable. I just can't afford to let myself think that way. Since that night, I have refused to spare a single thought on her outside of work. I have forced my eyes to behave when in her presence, and I have learned to act indifferent to her dazzling smiles and wide almond eyes. So, for the most part, everything is normal.

Except, of course, the way I feel when she's close to me. All she has to do is step into the same room as myself, and I immediately become aware of her presence. And even though I hide it well - _perfectly_ , actually - I always feel ten pounds lighter when she's around. _Everything_ feels lighter. My moods improve just slightly, and I can't help but feel a sense of warmth and safety when I know she's flawlessly performing a task I assigned for her. She has come a very long way from what she used to be, that's for certain. In fact, I might let her bring me the Book soon. She can handle more responsibility, and maybe Emily will regain some of the sanity she lost when she began juggling two assistants' jobs.

Ever since I slept with Stephen that night - after Andrea's make over - things have felt different, somehow. Not in my marriage, per se, although I'm avoiding sex with Stephen even more than usual. No, _I_ feel different. I got a taste of something sweet, something inexplicable and idiotic. Suddenly I can't stop thinking about my marriage, and my past relationships. Maybe they all failed, not because of me, but because they were all men. Not that I won't take responsibility for the failure of my past affairs. I know full well how impossible I am, how I drive everyone away, how I hurt the people I care about. Truly, I don't think I was ever supposed to be a happy person. I have never felt like my life was joyful and radiant as sunlight, like so many poets describe. I have never understood the deep longing and desire expressed in love songs. I've never had a thrilling, all-consuming love affair like the ones in romance novels. I suppose it doesn't matter, anyways. I'm old, and tired, and it's too late to change my life. I have a past filled with darkness and painful memories that haunt me still, and I don't think I have in it me to be anything but lonely.

Sometimes that's just the way things are meant to be.

 

_I've been tearing around in my fucking nightgown_

_24/7 Sylvia Plath._

_Writing in blood on the walls,_

_'Cause the ink in my pen don't work in my notepad._

_Don't ask if I'm happy, you know that I'm not_

_But at best I can say I'm not sad,_

_'Cause hope is a dangerous thing_

_For a woman like me to have._

 

She left me.

The turmoil of emotions boiling in my chest is like nothing I have ever felt before. I feel like the walls of my hotel suite are closing in around me, like I will suffocate any moment.

Would anyone even miss me if I were gone? Highly unlikely. Perhaps my daughters, but then again I have yet to tell them about the divorce. What a coward he is. And what a monster I am.

I broke her. Just like I broke Greg, and Stephen, and Nigel. Like I broke myself. I feel like my world has been turned on its axis, and I'm so lost that the whirlwind of thoughts won't let my mind think in peace.

_Andrea left._

We were in the car, and she looked so lovely in that shade of lipstick, and I was _explaining myself_ \- to make her understand that I didn't have a choice, to make her realize that she and I aren't so different after all. One moment she was behind me, and the next she was gone. It terrified me. I didn't know what was happening, but when I caught sight of her striding with purpose across the road, away from _me_ , I knew I had lost her forever. What could I have done? Everything inside me wanted to run after her, to beg forgiveness, to explain, to cry. But she would never want that, would she? She detests me. I am the epitome of everything that she hates. Normally I'm okay with people hating me, I made my peace with that a long time ago, but for some reason Andrea's rejection cuts deeper than any other I've ever felt. 

I stand from the sofa, taking yet another swig of scotch, revelling in the burning sensation as it traces fire down my throat.

How dare she? I could have given her so much. I could have taught her things and gotten her places she'd have to spend ten painful years working for. I could have had more time with her, to revel in her illuminating presence, a breath of fresh air amongst all the poison around me.

As it turns out, I've grown far more attached to the silly girl than I'd initially realised. This is truly ridiculous. I am _Miranda Priestly_. I do not drink my sorrows away alone in a Paris hotel suite, mourning the loss of an _assistant_. I suppose that mourning the slow death of a marriage and the sudden crack in one of the few close friendships I have adds a lot to my emotional state. But then why am I spending more time thinking of the girl than my husband of two years? Or my best friend of fifteen? What is it about the _stupid girl_ that makes it so difficult for me to stop thinking about her?

She lied to me last night. She looked me right in the eye, her brown depths of chocolate filled with sympathy and warmth, and she said that she wouldn't leave me like the others. She caught me at my weakest, at my most vulnerable, and she promised me she wouldn't leave like the rest of them. Apparently being in any way similar to me was the breaking point for her. I try not to let this thought hurt, but it stings painfully in my chest.

The office is going to feel so empty now. No more sweet _'Good morning, Miranda’_ 's; no more proud, triumphant smiles when she anticipates my needs, or accomplishes a particularly challenging task; no more honest laughter ringing through the air, its melodious cadence reminding me that true, unfiltered joy still exists. No more thrilling touches of fingertips when passing cups of coffee or files of paper; no more witty remarks to pass the time in the car when neither of us had anything to do; no more late night conversations when I'd invite her to join me in my study when she'd deliver the book. No more breath-taking smiles, or doe almond eyes eager to please, or the sound of her voice saying my name. 

I am flooded by something unknown to me - rage and heartbreak and humiliation burn my chest so painfully that I can barely draw breath. I see red, and the shrill smashing of glass brings me to my senses enough to realise that I've hurled the scotch glass at the wall. The shattered pieces lie on the floor in an amber puddle that begins to stain the carpet underneath. My knees give out, and I sink back to the couch, feeling for all the world like the loneliest soul alive.

 

 

_I've been tearing up town in my fucking white gown,_

_Like a goddamn near sociopath._

_She couldn't care less and I never cared more_

_So there's no more to say about that,_

_Except hope is a dangerous thing_

_For a woman like me to have._

_Hope is a dangerous thing_

_For a woman with my past._

He is finally gone. I hadn't realised just how constricting and _cage-like_ it was to have him living with me and my girls. He moved out a week ago, and already the house feels lighter, more comfortable. My girls were not as upset about the divorce as I thought they'd be. Perhaps they didn't like Stephen as much as I believed, or perhaps hoped. They have assured me that we are a perfect family - just the three of us. Perhaps they're right.

Despite the relief of my home life, I still carry with me a burden that shadows me with grief wherever I go. Nigel is just barely speaking to me, and Andrea is gone. I know that I'll have my old friend back eventually - he just needs time and space, so I'll give it to him, along with the promotion I've been pushing his way since about a year ago. He will finally get a position of his own, to create his own vision and share his talent with the world. I know he will do well on his own version of _Runway Men_ , and I will dearly miss my right-hand man, but it is for the best.

I only wish I could do something similar for Andrea. All I did was give her a good reference. And, well, not blacklisting her was a kind of gift on my behalf. I'm not oblivious to how much controversy that has caused among my staff. Everyone wonders how Andrea got away unscratched after abandoning the dragon. 

I wish I had an answer for that.

No matter what that girl does, no matter how much her absence has disrupted my work and caused me pain, I simply cannot go out of my way to hurt and punish her like that. She has so much potential, so much passion and determination. All I want is to see her thrive. I know she will be successful wherever she chooses to go, but a small part of me still hopes she will return to me.

Of course I see the irony of the situation. La Priestly, who has never needed anyone but has hurt everyone around her, finally is at the mercy of another person. The fact that said person is a female ex-assistant half my age would make me laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, if only it didn't hurt so much.

I knew the office would be different, but I could never have prepared myself for just how much the young woman would be missed. I know Emily misses her, even though she insists on hating her for some reason. Nigel and Serena too. I've seen them linger around Andrea's old desk a few times, as if expecting her to re-appear out of thin air and explain that it was all a big ruse. But most importantly, most painfully, _I_ miss her.

I miss her in the morning, when her replacement fails to get my coffee hot enough. I miss her every time I'm in the car with nothing to do except think about her and all the things I wish I'd said, and all the things I wish I'd asked. I miss her every time I spot a pair of leather thigh-high boots, remembering how she dazzled everyone around her when she wore the Chanel ones (which definitely did _not_ give me heart burn). But mostly I miss her at night, when I'm waiting for the Book to arrive, and I hear Emily's brusque gait on the entrance hall instead of her delicate, careful footfalls. I miss the way she looked when she stayed for a while after bringing the Book, sat across from me in my private office, tucked into the corner of the sofa and looking at me as if no one else mattered in the world. I miss our late conversations, when she would reveal something personal, or an anecdote of when she was younger, or when we'd spend hours talking about politics and films and art and literature. And when I lie in bed at night, and sleep escapes me, visions of her eyes full of sorrow and disappointment haunt me, and I can't tear from my mind the image of her walking away.

Maybe I've lost my mind.

It wouldn't be the first time in my life that I've doubted my mental health. When I was a young girl, people called me crazy and insane for having my life goal in running a fashion magazine. Then they called me crazy for how much I worked my way up to the top, dragging myself up by my fingernails and sheer willpower. They even called me crazy when I took the reigns of Runway - the youngest Editor in Chief of any fashion magazine. But I never once questioned my sanity because of these things. Oh, no. I left that for my personal life. Like why I ever agreed to marry Stephen, or why I've spent my life pushing my family and friends away, or why I seem to be unable to accept love. I wish I knew why I break people who get too close to me. I wish I knew why I've been unable to find happiness in my life, despite the incomprehensible amount of power and riches I have. But most importantly I wish I knew why I ever hired Andrea Sachs as my assistant, because that was probably my biggest mistake of all.

 

_A modern day woman with a weak constitution_

_'Cause I've got monsters still under my bed_

_That I could never fight off._

 

She's doing quite well for herself, apparently. I've read all her articles in the Mirror (although I would rather die than confess this to any living soul), and they are truly excellent. Her writing is impeccable, and I hear her voice in every word, every syllable. At first her articles were small, local news that were not particularly interesting or thrilling, but now she's getting better opportunities. That's not to say I didn't absorb every sentence as if I was inhaling her very essence. It's the only thing I have left of her. I like to think I made a difference in her life, that I helped guide her on the path of success. As I read through her latest work, I couldn't help but feel a tendril of pride, because it is truly an excellent piece. Yes, Andrea's voice carries perfectly through the pages, her passion and conviction for equal pay and diminishing the labour gender gap is so thrilling that I wanted to frame the article and keep it forever.

I wonder how she's doing, outside of work. I wonder if she has friends to celebrate her successes with, or perhaps a lover. The fry-cook, maybe? That disgusting little mole, Christian Thompson? It hurts to think about it, the pain sharp, like acid in my chest. All I want is for her to be happy, with someone who is worthy of her. And yet, the notion that I will never contribute to her happiness, the thought that I will forever remain in her life as a distant memory of a person she loathes, it makes me feel like I could tear my own skin apart.

The truth is that each day without her gets more and more tiresome. Especially after the Irv incident.

That egotistical, awful little cockroach.

After the divorce was finally finalised, the press left me alone for two or so months. It was bliss. I was able to take my girls out to the park and museums and shopping. I could enjoy being outside again, without the constant harassment of people shoving cameras in my face and shouting awful questions and cruel accusations at me. However, the reprieve was short-lived, because - and I'm not entirely sure why - the press came after me again. This time, looking for reasons why I'm still 'unattached'. Because apparently the public expects me to date right after having gotten divorced. Ridiculous.

It didn't bother me, initially. I'm used to the press being a pain in my back, a thorn on my shadow. I was prepared to ignore it until they bored of me and pounced on the next news sensation. Irv, however, seemed more than happy to take immediate action, to my chagrin. Perhaps this is his revenge after the Paris ordeal.

Disgusting little man.

When he said I needed to get back in the dating scene, for a horrifying moment I thought he was making a move on me. As he continued to explain, however, I simply became so outraged that I couldn't even muster an answer before he was strutting off, no doubt full of himself.

So, of course I've been forced to go on dates with several wealthy bachelors, and I have to take handsome men on my arm to events. There is nothing for it: the press have backed off, and Runway sales went up just the slightest. That was enough conviction for Irv, and he ordered I keep up the "dating, sexy persona" I had going on. I nearly stabbed myself in the eye with my fountain pen.

It was strange, seeing myself on the cover of some of the gossip rags, or even photos online or in small section articles. Since I've mostly had steady, long-term relationships, my love life has never been a subject of such debate until now, It feels strange to read all the rumours, speculation, and gossip  going around about me and my 'gentlemen-friends'. I wonder what Andrea thinks, seeing me on the arm of all these men a mere few months after my divorce from Stephen. She probably finds it undignified, or desperate. Or maybe she doesn't care at all. Maybe every time she sees my name or my photo, she turns the page. For some reason, the thought of her indifference hurts more than anything else.

Things have been better, though. I think I'm starting to get used to her absence. I'm certainly not happy about it, and it still hurts whenever I think about her, but it's not as bad as it used to be. I spend most of my time juggling work and motherhood, and I have little time to dwell on the one who got away. I like to think this is a good thing, but now I see her in my dreams, and sometimes thoughts of her keep me up until late at night.

Thankfully, tonight I have a work function, which always means getting home late and being too tired to do or think about anything but sleep.

It's not a very entertaining function. Some charity or other, I didn't even bother to learn what it's about. All I have to do is stand here, holding court in one corner of the room, as people continually drift in and out of my sight. The new girl - Sarah? Susan? Who knows - seems to be adequate at memorising all their names, so my job is cut out for me. All I have to do is fake a million smiles and make painful small talk that makes me want to slice my own tongue off.

Suddenly, I see a flash of brown in the corner of my eye, a figure eerily familiar, dressed in a maroon dress. She turns away before I can catch a glimpse of her face, and yet my heart speeds up in my chest. I feel it thumping in my ears as I assess the woman - the cascade of her silky hair down her shoulders, the toned back, the curve of her hips, the long, luscious legs. Everything about this woman reminds me of Andrea, and I send a silent prayer that I'm mistaken - that it's not really her. Or maybe I wish that _is_ her, if only so I can see her one more time.

She turns, and the ringing in my ears makes it impossible for me to hear anything other than my rapid pulse.

Oh, God.

She looks right at me, and a shock of electricity races down my body. I can't do anything but stare. Everything around me dissolves away and I can only focus on those brown orbs that stare right back at me.

She looks breath taking.

The maroon gown fits her figure perfectly, her chest and collarbones beautifully displayed, her make up flawless, her hair glittering under the chandeliers. My fingers tingle, itching to touch it, to run my fingers through it. Her lipstick makes her lips look like a dream, and when she sends me a small, secret smile, my heart stops all together.

She begins to make her way through the crowd, her eyes never leaving me, and the closer she gets, the more nervous I become. Is she coming to speak to me? Will I hear her voice saying my name after all this time? Will I bask in her scent again? Will I get to have her close, the way I've dreamed of for so many months now?

Time seems to move so slowly, but before I know it she's standing before me, that smile widening, making her eyes crinkle at the corners, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.

"Hello, Miranda." Her voice is delicious velvet, and my eyes nearly flutter.

"Andrea," I manage to say, a lot steadier than I'd expected. I need to pull myself together. This may be the last chance I get to see her. "How is journalism treating you? I hear you're doing quite well for yourself."

Her surprise is written on her face as clear as day, but in a moment she's composed again, her eyes shinning so brightly that I can't look away for even a second.

"It's going very well, thank you," her smile is back, as stunning as ever. "I'm really happy with the progress I've made. I'm actually here to write about this charity."

Suddenly, I wish I'd bothered to learn about this event, so that I could talk to her about it. I miss having conversations with her. I miss _her_.

"I'm happy to hear it," I say, and I become aware of my own smile, the softness in my features. It's as if she relaxes me and sets me on fire all at once. "I'm glad you're using your endless talents to do more than fetch scarves and coffee."

I hope she understand that I'm teasing her, and a moment of trepidation looms over me at the notion that she could take that as an insult. But then she laughs, and I melt. She is still the same woman with the joyous laughter, who understands me better than anyone.

"I'm glad we understand each other, Miranda."

Suddenly it's hard to swallow.

"Well," I say, and I can't ignore how sullen my voice sounds now. "There are many things that I don't understand, no matter how much I try to figure them out."

She blinks, and I know she knows what I'm referring to. After a hesitation, she steps closer, and my breath hitches.

"Do you have a moment to talk somewhere more private?"

Warmth suffuses me, and I can feel beads of sweat at the back of my neck just from the thought of being alone with her again.

"Of course," I try to sound commandeering, and turn to the new girl. "Stay right here. Do not move." I turn back to face Andrea, and she looks amused. "Follow me." 

I can feel her falling into step behind me as I make my way to a private hallway that leads to secluded bathrooms. The gait of her walk sounds so familiar that I momentarily close my eyes at how familiar it feels to have her following me like this. For a moment, I can pretend that nothing has changed at all.

I find an ample private bathroom, complete with flowers, towels, and a bench. I decide to sit, and my feet throb with relief after many hours of standing in five-inch heels. Andrea closes the door, and I try not to tremble with anticipation. To my surprise, she takes a seat beside me, and turns to look directly at me. Her gaze is unflinching and serious, but her expression is soft and relaxed. I take a moment to absorb this, to memorise this as best as I can, in case I never see her again.

"So," she begins, and I force myself to concentrate on what she's saying. "There are things you don't understand?"

I nod, not really wanting to speak. I want her to do the talking. I said my peace in the car back in Paris so many months ago. It's her turn.

"You're talking about Paris, aren't you? Why I left the way I did?"

I hesitate, but then nod again. She exhales slowly, but her gaze does not falter.

"Paris was a dream," she begins, and everything in me is standing at sharp attention, absorbing everything she says. "I felt bad for being there instead of Emily, but it was a _dream_ , Miranda. I felt closer to you. I don't know if that's because I was the only assistant there with you, or because we were sleeping under the same roof, or because my room was so close to yours. I don't know if it was the fact that we were in the city of romance, or how much beauty we saw in show after show. Even though my boyfriend had dumped me before the trip, and even though my friends all took his side, and even though Emily hated me, I couldn't have been happier, because I was at your side."

She pauses to take a deep breath, and I'm entranced by her. My heart races at her words, and the warm feeling of hope blossoms in my chest.

"That night I found you in your hotel room was heart breaking for me, but it also changed everything. I saw _you_ , Miranda. Not the Editor, or the dragon. I saw _Miranda_. I couldn't get you out of my mind for a single moment after that. I wanted to take care of you, to wipe your tears and take the pain away. I wanted..." Her voice drifts away, and her gaze becomes lost in memories. I try to even out my breathing, but her words are striking something in me that is building up a wave of uncontrollable emotions. She straightens her posture, and her gaze is sharp again, staring into me. "I think I lost myself in you. I forgot that you were Miranda Priestly. So when you did what you did to Nigel... I couldn't take it. I couldn't accept that you would hurt someone who loves you in such a way. Because if you could do that to your most loyal friend of fifteen years, what would Miranda Priestly do to a fat, worthless assistant of no importance? You would break me, Miranda. I realised this in the car, so I ran. I had to get away from you, if only to keep my sanity."

I stare at her, speechless. How do I unpack all of that? How do I begin to explain that the last thing I want in this world is to hurt her? How do I explain that I would do everything in my power to see her happy? I open my mouth, but no words come.

Suddenly a shrill sound fills the air, and as she fumbles with her purse I realise it's her cell phone. I blink, trying to compose myself, but it feels like I'm trying to put back together something that has been broken too many times.

She looks at her phone display, and bites her lip before looking up at me.

"I have to go," she says apologetically, and my heart clenches painfully. "I hope you understand certain things better now. Have a nice evening."

She stands, and she's walking away from me - _no, not again_. She is opening the door, and I instinctively shoot up from the bench.

" _Andrea!_ " my voice sound hoarse and unsettled, and it's enough to make her turn to look at me. "You can't leave. Not again." _Please_.

Her expression is pained, and she opens her mouth to say something before the phone rings again, cutting her off.

"I'm sorry, Miranda." I feel my heart cracking as I watch her step away from my life. "I'll return to you, I promise."

And then she is gone.

 

_I've been tearing around in my fucking nightgown_

_24/7, Sylvia Plath,_

_Writing in blood on your walls_

_'Cause the ink in my pen don't look good in my pad,_

_They write that I'm happy, they know that I'm not_

_But at best you can see I'm not sad._

 

It has been two weeks since I saw her.

I feel more tired, more confused, and more sorrowful than I have felt in recent months. This is typical Andrea - I finally begin to adapt to her absence, and she barges into my life for ten minutes to cause me even more turmoil. I feel so lost. Her words haunt me, making me think there are more to her feelings than just the loathing I had assumed she felt. She planted a small seed of hope in my chest, and I hate her for it. She is clearly not going to return to me. She lied to me, again. Why should I trust her word, anyways? She betrayed me once, she can easily do it again. She has abandoned me twice now, and at this point it's pure stupidity that keeps me anticipating the day I will see her again. Foolish old woman. After so many years being miserable, I should know better than to hope for this silly girl to return to me.

She looked so beautiful, though. Being with her again was like finally breathing after an age of drowning in grief. Her smile blinded me, lighting up the room like only Andrea can do. And her voice was like music to my ears. It felt so good to be in her presence again, but why? How did I let this girl get under my skin like this?

There's a nock at the door, and I freeze. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart, and make my way down to the entrance hall. Wine glass still in hand, I open the door.

And there she is.

I forget to breathe. I can't move, or speak, or even blink. _She's here._

She smiles tremulously at me, her eyes shinning with unabashed hope.

I step aside to let her in. I can't help but take a deep breath as she breezes past me into my home, and my eyes fall close at smelling her perfume again.

She stands on the foyer, not knowing what to do, looking as lost as I feel.

I need to take charge, so I make my way upstairs, confident that she will follow like she always does. Well, not always.

We reach my private study, where I had been before she knocked at my door. She makes a beeline for the sofa she always chose when it was just the two of us here, and my heart flutters at seeing her in her spot again, curled up against the cushions.

I pour another glass of wine and offer it to her. She takes it, and our fingers brush, and I can hear my breath hitch.

She is obviously surprised when I sit on the sofa with her. I'm sure she expected me to chose the armchair across from her, but I need to be close to her. She takes a sip of wine, and hums in delight.

"You came back." My voice is deep and filled with emotion, even to my own ears. She turns to look at me, and simply nods. "Why?"

She smiles now, and it's such an honest expression that it's difficult not to melt at the sweetness of it.

"I didn't want to leave you, at the function. But I had a family emergency, which is why it's taken me so long to come back to you."

I frown, and worry clouds my expression. "Is everything okay?"

She shrugs half heartedly. "My dad had a heart attack. He's okay now, but he was in the hospital for a while, so I went back to Ohio to be with family. I got back two days ago."

I'm taken aback by this. I was so focused on myself that I didn't stop to think the reason behind Andrea's hasty retreat from the venue's bathroom, or her lack of communication afterwards. I simply assumed it was what I deserved.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Andrea."

Her sullen look disappears then, and her smile is soft, her eyes warm as she looks at me. "It's okay now. Plus, hearing you say my name always makes me feel a thousand times better."

I blink in surprise. "Really?"

She nods, and grins as she moves closer. My blood pounds in my veins, and I feel lightheaded. "You really have no idea, do you?" My confusion is apparent in my expression, because she chuckles, the sound making my stomach flutter. "Miranda, I didn't leave in Paris because I hate you. I left because I started caring too much, too deeply, to the point where my feelings were anything but appropriate in a professional relationship. I thought my feelings were unreciprocated, until I saw you at the function. I know how to read you well, Miranda, and your feelings are written all over your face."

My mind feels numb. I can't process what she is saying, what her words mean, because she has once again managed to flip my world upside down, and I'm left scrambling to keep up. She can't mean what I think she means, right? It's preposterous. She can't honestly return my feelings, can she? She looks at me with something I've never seen in her chocolate eyes before, and they look darker than usual somehow, as if she's seeing right into the depth of my being.

"What-" I start, but my voice breaks and I have to clear my throat. "What are you saying, Andrea?"

She moves closer still, and my heart is about to beat its way through my chest and onto her lap. Her face is so close that I feel her warm breath, and her scent suffocates me with sweet delight. I try to understand what is happening, I try to form coherent thought, but my mind is uncooperative.

I have no words to explain what it feels like when her lips finally touch mine. Everything stops, and all that I'm aware of is the softness of her lips, kissing me with a gentleness I've never felt before. Now I understand what all those poems and songs were about. When I kiss her back, she sighs against me before deepening the kiss, and my body feels like it's about to boil over. I feel warmth everywhere, and my skin tingles in goose bumps when she runs her fingers up the back of my neck and into my hair.

 _Oh_.

This is like nothing I've ever experienced. It dawns on me that I've wanted this for much longer than I realised. From the moment I met her, from the moment I laid my eyes on her, I wanted _more_. She's finally here, and she returns my feelings, and her lips seem to be breathing a new kind of life into me. I wonder how I've lived all my life without this sweetness. I wonder how I'll cope if she ever decides to leave again. I don't think I can be deprived of this now - not after getting a taste of what Andrea feels like under my touch, how her hair feels like silk between my fingers, how her sighs and gasps and moans are the most wonderful sounds I've ever heard.

I need air, and I pull back from her, trying to get my loud breathing under control. My eyes flutter open to see her gazing at me with so much longing and affection that my breath leaves me again. Her lips are the most perfect shade of red I've ever seen, her cheeks an adorable pink, her eyes the colour of black coffee, alive and beautiful and mesmerising.

"You can't leave me," I hear myself say, unmasked desperation in my voice. "Not again."

She smiles, wide and radiant, like the first sun rays of spring after a cold dark winter.

"Never again," she says, her voice a quiet promise that lifts all the weight from my burdened shoulders.

As I lean in to kiss her again, I see our future before us. All the things I want to explore with her, all the places I wish to take her to, all the love I will give her, like my very life depends on her happiness. I feel like I'm bursting with hope, bright and unfaltering and all consuming, because I know that the future will bring happiness and laughter and joy, all with her by my side.

 

_Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have_

_But I have it._

 

 


End file.
